


And the Trains Go By...

by TiredBohemian



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Both characters are kinda corrupted by the other, F/M, Fictional Depiction of Witchcraft, Halloween, Horror, Horror story just in time for Halloween, Murder, Witchcraft, this is really fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiredBohemian/pseuds/TiredBohemian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The train whistle sounded like home. She remembered when she lived so close the tracks that the rumble of the wheels as it thundered by would vibrate her entire apartment and rock her to quiet sort of half sleep. Now she was lucky if she heard the whistle at all, and couldn’t hear the great steel mass of it go by. <br/>The figure had first found her in that desert town where she was invisible and free; rolled in from the desert night and sat upon her stoop. She had looked at it with dark fathomless eyes that reflected orange from her cigarette.</p>
<p>Now she stared at it from the other side of the storm door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Trains Go By...

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure if this counts as non-con, so I thought I'd add the warning just in case. Both characters are corrupted by each other so its all just really fucked up. If anyone needs me to change anything, please let me know. I want everyone to be safe.

The train whistle sounded like home. She remembered when she lived so close the tracks that the rumble of the wheels as it thundered by would vibrate her entire apartment and rock her to quiet sort of half sleep. Now she was lucky if she heard the whistle at all, and couldn’t hear the great steel mass of it go by.   
It was a different town and a different train now. Then there was a hot, endless desert with an over-abundance of saguaro cacti. Now there were cornfields farther than the eye could see, and, much to the area farmers’ displeasure, it would not stop raining. This Midwest town was where she had grown up, but that desert place was where she had been free.   
The train rocked perpendicular to Main Street, and a figure threw itself out of one of those empty wooden train cars that shouldn’t really exist any more, especially on a coal train. It was misting heavily, not quite rain, and darker than it had any right to be at five in the afternoon, even in October. The figure’s arrival went unnoticed. At least it would have, if she had not lived there. She would be immediately aware of the figure’s presence no matter where the figure followed her to, or how stealthy the figure was.  
The figure had first found her in that desert town where she was invisible and free; rolled in from the desert night and sat upon her stoop. She had looked at it with dark fathomless eyes that reflected orange from her cigarette. She followed the coast next, and the waves that she could hear from that apartment were not enough like the tireless steel wheels to be comforting. It had blown in on the salty sea wind in pursuit of her, and sat on the hood of her car. Her eyes had looked black behind the cloud of smoke she had exhaled at the sight of it. In Nevada it hung upside-down from the rusted out jungle gym in the yard and her eyes had been itchy and red. In Texas she had quit smoking, the figure had leaned heavily on a tree in the backyard, and her eyes were an angry dark thunderstorm grey. In Nebraska she had bore her teeth in a snarl and left town before it got close enough to see; her eyes had flashed yellow like the old street lights in the middle of the night.  
Now she stared at it from the other side of the storm door. It stood with its head down, on the sidewalk in front of her parents’ house. Her eyes were the eerie grey-green that the sky gets before a hailstorm or a tornado. Her nails tapped pensively on her mug. The figure twitched subtly with every tap. I came to you, said the figure. I came and I found you. Are you proud of me? She stayed quiet, but she did blink which was better than nothing.   
That night it stormed. The figure hid under the porch. Her old farmer father grumbled at the rain, and his voice sounded like the thunder and the rumble of steel. Her mother had a voice like gravel, but it was warm. She did not grumble that night, but watched her with eyes that matched hers. “What will you do with it?” her mother asked about the figure. Her father had not noticed it at all. She licked her lips and squinted her eyes but did not answer her.  
The next morning her mother acted like she did not know of any figures or strange weather. She pretended her daughter’s restless drifting was her own propensity. She wished her mother would acknowledge the things that they spoke of together at night.   
For a week the figure dogged her steps, but it did not interfere. Every night they would stare at each other through the storm door and every night the figure would lay an offering on the step. Sometimes it was acorn, sometimes a leaf. Once it was a flower, and another time it was a pumpkin seed. The little pile grew, unnoticed by everyone else behind a flowerpot.  
On the Wednesday after the figure had come, the sky matched her eyes and the clouds churned. Everyone in town watched the sky and held their breath, keeping the radios and TVs tuned to the weather stations. She met it in the yard with her duffle slung across her shoulders and its offerings in a pouch on her belt. She crooked her finger at it, and it hummed with surprised pleasure and pride as it followed her as closely as her own shadow.   
***  
She had just prowled into the little convenience store, and the clerk found he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked like she had stepped from a sci-fi novel, or maybe a dystopian future. Her ruddy complexion and wide, round face denied her the beauty society touted, though it might be guessed that she thought those norms beneath her simply by the way she carried herself. Her clothes were dusty and her hair was a frizzy mess, but she smiled like she might kill a man dead and he’d thank her.   
Her shadow seemed a touch too solid.   
He suddenly realized that they were the only two people in the store, and though he was a good forty pounds heavier and full foot taller than her, he was inexplicably nervous. And rightly so, because they found him in pieces in the desert, and his skeleton was gone entirely.   
***  
The figure had decided he wanted to be male. She had told him it was a wise choice, considering males were generally more privileged. He assured her that he would always be devoted in his service to her.  
The figure had wanted to be very tall, so she had found him the appropriate bones. She had pulled quite a few tricks to pull it off. Cameras were harder to fool than people, she told him, and convenience stores tend to be full of them. He was humbled by all the trouble she went through for him, and he brought her an offering of wine. She was pleased with him, and he shivered in delight at her favor.  
***  
The drunk was leaning against the pool table, and through bloodshot eyes found his mark. The ball sunk, and the game was his. He smirked proudly over at the little blonde at the bar, hoping she had noticed. She had. A slow, welcoming smile spread across her rather homely face, but the drunk did not care that she wasn’t movie star gorgeous. He wasn’t after her face. Her curves were far more welcoming. He strutted over to her, but before he got to her, she got up and sashayed to the back door. She winked and beckoned. He grinned and followed.   
He was not found at all.  
***  
The figure had muscles now. Big, powerful ones only gained through a mixture of regular hard labor and an adolescence spent in the gym. She had insisted that he be strong, but also had him swear to never turn that strength against her. She promised that she would show him what fear and helplessness truly tasted like should he ever even think of it. He had shuddered and grown sick with that very fear and sworn his fidelity to her again.  
Over the next month the figure chose a lily-white skin, more perfect than porcelain; a set of the healthiest respiratory organs available; a set of digestive organs that were tougher than a goat’s; and a scalp with the most gorgeous red hair he had ever seen. All that was left for him to acquire was a brain, eyes, and reproductive organs. When he had hesitantly told his mistress what was left, she had cooed lovingly at him that she would procure all these things, but it may take time for her to find any that met her criteria. Only the best for her servant, after all. The figure absolutely wiggled with joy at her loving consideration.   
***  
The woman was nice. She gave him candy and kind words. She promised nice things. One of those things was a long peaceful nap. That sounded nice. He didn’t want to go back to the nurses. He hadn’t needed a nurse until his mother had given him to the doctor. The doctor had promised to make him better, but he hadn’t known what needed fixing. Then everything became odd and overwhelming and full of nurses. That had been a very long time ago. He didn’t want to go back to the nurses, so he went with the nice woman. She had big sad eyes and sung him to sleep.  
***  
Procuring him a brain had taken a toll on his mistress. She said that the man she had taken it from had been very old, and a victim of a lobotomy performed in the 1940’s. She had to do many magicks for the brain to work like she wanted it to. She made it younger, stronger, so it could operate his new body perfectly, but did not repair the lobotomy. She said she left it so that the essence that was the figure could occupy the body.   
This man was the only one she cried over. “His life was full of neglect,” she said, “but his heart was full of trust.” He mourned with her, and was grateful both to the old man and his mistress for his new brain. He left a candy with the old man’s body, and offered his mistress a shiny piece of glass in effort to cheer her up.   
***  
She got him the reproductive organs next. She did not say how or from who she got them from, and had not let him come along as her shadow like she had every other time. “I will expect you to service me with this,” she said as she affixed the prick to the crotch. It was still wet, and his mistress walked the prowl of the sated. The figure convulsed with the desire to make his mistress happy. She grinned, and it was the first time he noticed the blood in her teeth and the way her eyes glowed a reddish-brown. He sang her praises and she grinned wider.   
***  
“I will make your eyes myself,” she announced a week later. He protested; he had been hoping for some pretty human peepers! The air suddenly became oppressive and still in there little hotel room. Her eyes flashed yellow. “Are you turning down my gift?” She asked, and her voice was low and soft, somehow sounding like the grinding of wheels on train tracks. He cowered and said he’d be happy with anything she gave him. He cowered further when she advanced on him. Had he already inhabited his body, she would have killed him for his insolence. As it was, he was not well enough to move from his position at her feet for days.  
“I will make your eyes myself,” she purred to him, and he submitted gladly to her. She made them from two solid obsidian spheres. She magicked them so they would always see the truth, but she did nothing to make them seem like regular human eyes. She told him he’d have to wear sunglasses and keep his hair long. He agreed readily. She purred in satisfaction and told him the solid black eyes would make him look like a demon. “My lovely demon, all mine,” she crooned. He whimpered in ecstasy.   
***  
On the longest night of the year, somewhere in the middle of the desert, the figure slowly stepped into the body his mistress had made for him. It was a long and painful process, and he was unsure if he would survive. His mistress had storm cloud eyes and a travel mug. Her nails went tap tap tap on the side of it. She stood statue still watching him struggle. She did not seem moved by his screams for help.  
When at last it was over, he lay in the dirt; dry heaved, and finally looked upon his mistress with physical eyes meant to see the truth. The truth was that she was a witch. She was neither good, nor evil. She was a steward of both life and death. She was a predator, she had no use for morals, and she was probably going to kill him.  
He adored her.  
He crawled to lay belly up by her feet.. He whimpered and stared up at her. His dick grew hard, but he didn’t dare move. Her eyes were blacker than his own. “What is your name, my lovely demon?”  
“I belong to you.” Croaked the figure-given-form. She grinned, and in the light of the moon it seemed she had fangs. She stooped down and grabbed a handful of his luxurious red hair and tugged him into a kneeling position. He tilted his head back to bare his throat and placed his hands demurely behind his back. His dick jolted and spurted a little precum. She spoke words of power and bound him to her, and he whimpered in bliss. She swooped down and clamped her teeth around his throat. His scream turned into a gurgle before it could even leave his mouth. He came in another act of submission to her.  
***  
There was a woman who lived in the apartment by the train tracks. She lived with a very large redheaded man. They kept to themselves; and just as well, because they were odd. She sold potions and charms, and made every man she came across afraid without knowing why. The man always wore sunglasses even in the nighttime and had a horrid scar on his throat. He followed the woman around like an adoring puppy. But they left well enough alone, so the people of the sleepy, dusty desert town let them be.

**Author's Note:**

> First work on AO3, just in time for Samhain! Hope you enjoyed! Please send me any comments/questions/concerns/feedback in general.


End file.
